Eight days more and he was again starving. On the ninth he arrived at
the spot where we had dug up the little ferry-boat which carried the
seven adventurers far down the river more than three very long dreary
months before. Snow now covered the entire country, and all emigrants
had long since gone by. His strength was failing fast but it would not
do to linger there, so he arose and was about to start when he saw a
poor old ox slowly coming towards him, and when it had come up near to
him he discovered a wolf not far behind which seemed to be following the
ox, but it soon turned and went away. Night was coming on and he was
very hungry. Something must be done. The last cartridge had been
exploded in killing the poor, broken legged Indian pony, and the
revolver was no longer of use. The ox, though feeble, was probably yet
stronger than the starving man.
Field feared that he was not able to catch the ox by the horns and hold
it until he could cut its throat, so the next plan was to get hold of
the animal's tail with one hand, and with the big knife in the other cut
his hamstrings so as to disable him, and then cut his throat. The ox
seemed fond of being rubbed and petted, so after a little time a firm
hold on the tail was secured, and the big knife vigorously applied, but
it was so very dull that he could not sever the tough old tendons. After
sawing with the dull knife and being literally dragged for some
distance, he became so much exhausted that he was obliged to relinquish
his hold and see the excited old ox disappear.
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